Love's Language
by BeforeTheStorm15
Summary: A poet/journalist AU. Emma isn't looking for love. She certainly isn't looking to fall for an intriguing poet. So why is she? As she spends more time with Killian Jones - strictly for work purposes, obviously - she realises that the language of love may be worth discovering after all.


**A/N:** _This is going to be a - hopefully - sweet, romantic, funny fic with mild angst and some sexy times later._

 _I'm 'swans-hooks-and-books' on tumblr, so please come chat with me :)_

 _I love hearing feedback so if you can leave a review, that'd be awesome! x_

* * *

It all starts with a song.

A song, and an insistent friend.

Elsa, her white-blonde locks tied tightly into a single braid, leans back in the office chair and smiles.

The look of bliss on her face is endearing, and Emma takes a moment to quit raking her eyes over the latest edition of their company's magazine. She concentrates; tuning into the song playing softly from the radio.

It's calming; simple lyrics and soothing piano accompaniments.

"You like this, huh?" Emma snorts, not unkindly. She is in Elsa's office after all, sitting opposite and slowly sipping from her coffee cup, so she feels it would be rude to comment on her friend's taste.

In fact, it's not a terrible song.

Just…lonesome.

It hits a little too close to home for Emma's liking.

"This song is like magic." Elsa murmurs, lost to the music. "It's like poetry."

Emma doesn't disagree.

She swallows back the strange lump in her throat and refocuses her attention back onto the glossy paper. Her boss, and editor, Regina, will soon ask her for her opinion, and she needs to be ready with more than a simple nod of approval. Being Regina Mills' assistant was rewarding, but by no means tiring.

Her friend suddenly gasps, sitting up straight in her chair. Elsa's eyes widen. "I complete forgot! I have a scoop for you."

"You do?"

Elsa nods. "Yep. A friend of mine told me about him."

"Him?" Emma repeats, a little unsure. Elsa was a talented photographer, and an important gear in the clock that made up _Happy Endings -_ their company magazine _-_ but she had never been out in the field. She had never had to make the harsh calls about deciding who was worth making it into the latest issue.

Emma was reluctant to waste her time.

Still, she waited for her friend to elaborate.

"Well, he's a poet-"

"Come _on_." Emma rolls her eyes. "You know how Regina hates those run of the mill, 'I've just earned my degree and want to show off' types. If I even mention the word 'post-grad' she'll kick my ass."

"Look, Anna said he's something else. Something exceptional."

"More like exceptionally dull." Emma scoffs, earning her a sharp look from her friend.

She sighs, draining the last of her coffee.

The logical part of Emma tells her to refuse. Even to send out a reporter to judge the man's talent could waste precious time; time that the magazine could be spending on more worthwhile artists.

Another part of Emma is curious.

She'd never really been into poetry, but she'd been an avid reader of books of all kind since a very young age.

Poetry was like the third cousin she greeted at a family gathering, but never spent proper time with. It wasn't a strong suit of hers.

"I still need to finish my piece on contemporary novels for this month." She mumbles, looking away from Elsa's fierce stare. Her friend sure knew when to use her eyes like a camera lens; refusing to focus elsewhere until the object succumbed to her will.

 _And I'm the object,_ Emma thought, dryly. _More like victim._

Keeping her tone as uninterested as possible, she tossed her paper cup in the wastebasket and asked, "When does he perform then?"

"Tuesday afternoons, and Friday evenings. At _The Jolly Roger_."

"Never heard of it."

Elsa shot her a look that was the equivalent of a raised middle finger. "Don't be a snob, Emma. It's a café. Anna said it was beautiful."

Emma's lips twitched. "And I'm guessing the guy was pretty easy on the eyes too, huh?"

Elsa looked away, not meeting her accusing gaze. "She may have said something about his aesthetically pleasing face."

"Right." Emma snorted. "There we go then. Just another pretty boy trying to use words to woo over the women of New York City." She stood, pushing back her chair and stretching out her neck.

She had another thirty fan letters to read through and select for the new issue.

"Emma, please. I know you don't normally review poets, so even if you don't want to write a piece, it might make a nice night out for you?"

Emma frowned. "Are you implying that I need to get out more?" She gestured around to the building, at the dozens of people rushing around to finish off last minute articles and edits. "We're all pretty fucked in the social life department."

"Alright, alright." Elsa held up her hands in defeat. "Have it your way. Go back to your fans."

"They're not _my_ fans. They love the magazine."

"But it's your section they adore."

Emma hid the blush creeping onto her cheeks.

It was, arguably, true.

Her book section was not the largest, but it was well-loved by many readers.

It gave young readers the opportunity to share their thoughts on books they had read, share recommendations, and also share their own stories. Many publishers flicked through the section, and so Emma took her job seriously in choosing which send-ins made it into the segment.

"Thanks." She finally mumbled.

Elsa shook her head fondly. "You're a strange creature, Emma Swan."

When Emma opened her mouth to bite back a retort, her friend held up a hand and added, with a grin, "But I wouldn't have you any other way. Now get your ass back to what you do best."

"Having a non-existent love life?" Emma offered.

"Kicking ass at your job." Elsa raised an eyebrow. "We'll work on the love life thing some other time though."

"Lovely. I look forward to it."

She really wasn't.

It had been a few year since she had even been on a proper date.

 _Does a movie even count as a date these days?_

A stab of bitterness gnawed at her insides.

Was she ever going to have those first date butterflies again?

Was she ever going to fret over an outfit with her friends and find someone who would listen to her and-

 _But Henry,_ she thought. And then she felt guilty for even thinking it.

What did it matter that she was a single mom? It was 2016, not the Dark Ages. People fell in love at different ages, she reminded herself quickly.

Some soulmates just take a little while longer to find each other.

Plus, her son was amazing, and she would not trade in Henry – and his brilliant mind and dazzling smiles – for any suitor. Especially not the handsome ones. Or the ones who tricked her into loving them before abandoning her to pick up their pieces.

She would not put herself through that heartache ever again.

Better to stay away from love, and all its pesky, complicated messes.

* * *

"We're closing up early tonight, Jones, so get your thing done and be on your way."

"I bet you say that to all the lasses."

"Screw you." Robin retorts, but the small smile tugging at his lips doesn't go unnoticed.

Killian pouts. "Buy me a drink first?"

At that, his friend, and current employer, Robin, shakes his head and turns back to restocking the bar.

It's only one o'clock, and though his set doesn't start for another hour, Killian had been wanting to go over a few new poems before the afternoon session started.

It was one thing to write romantic lines in a bathtub with rum, but it was another to translate it to an audience.

The alcohol warmed his skin and loosened his tongue, and pen, but it didn't always form coherent words. It was sometimes a mess of drunken words that he looked at the following morning, groaned at, and then tossed the papers into his well-used trash can.

Sometimes, it helped.

It let the dark parts of him– the heartache, the loss and the unbearable evils of self-loathing – be churned into poetry; into words and sentences, and if he was lucky, an entire piece.

Killian survived that way.

By taking his pain and forcing it into something worthwhile.

If he could not change the past, he could certainly change how it felt. At least for a little while; until the alcohol faded away, and the spotlight descended into a darkness that once again left him completely alone.

"So, what mood are we going for this time?" Robin called out, his voice a little muffled as he ducked underneath the bar. He reappeared with a new, full bottle of vodka and switched it with the empty one.

Killian eyed it up for a moment and then shrugged. "Lovesick, handsome poet seeking beautiful woman for one night's release from the oblivion of our souls?"

Robin blinked.

"Too much?" Killian grinned.

"Jesus Christ, man. Yes. Way too much for an indie coffee shop."

Killian pointed a finger at his friend, grinning. "Indie coffee shop at night. Hardcore depression in the evenings?"

Robin nodded in agreement. "Scheduled from seven pm onwards: alcohol and the sinking feeling that we will all one day die. But," He shot Killian a warning look. "No depression until then. It's Tuesday. Which means happy poet today, got it?"

"Bugger. Hmm, let's see." Killian scratched his chin thoughtfully. He really needed to trim down, he realised. His beard was almost as unruly as his hair, which was something else entirely. "Charming poet who warms the cockles of even the bleakest of hearts?"

Robin gave him a thumbs up. "Perfect, my friend."

When Robin rounded the corner to change the soup specials on the blackboard, Killian hopped across the bar in a fluid movement. He quickly reached for a glass, poured himself out a generous amount of vodka and stirred in a little cranberry to hide the burn.

By the time Robin was back, Killian had downed his drink and placed the empty glass on a nearby table.

Someone else would find it later, when the place was more crowded, and clean it up without another thought.

After all, he was giving Robin and the bar at least twenty more customers every Tuesday and Friday.

Killian figured that earned him a few free drinks at least.

The pay wasn't too terrible actually. Considering some of the jobs he'd suffered with before, this one was like a miracle.

In the two months that Killian had been performing at _The Jolly Roger,_ the café slash bar slash poet's corner, he had come to enjoy the place. He enjoyed the people, and the freedom in performing to a crowd who already knew what to expect. There was hardly a moment of nerves, and he had grown close with Robin as well.

Having a stable job was a welcome change for Killian.

Until now, he'd gotten by through competitions and freelance hires; working on everything from advert jingles to school plays to one off favours where people needed an original poem. It was surprising how many people desired his skills with a pen. Lovers, enemies, friends; everyone of all ages and sizes.

He had built up his website and portfolio and eventually caught Robin's eye, who needed someone who could perform a mixture of poems to suit the changing times of the café/bar.

Killian looked around at the café, a large, yet homely space with soft lights and warm, brown furniture, and smiled.

This was the longest he'd been in one place for as long as he could remember. He was beginning to see why poets stuck to one area. It was good business; helped him gather a larger following and attracted people, and potential employers, to his website.

He caught the eye of a man flicking through a newspaper. His smile faded a little.

 _Bloody journalists,_ he thought, turning back to the stage, and where he'd left his notebook on top of the stool.

The last thing Killian wanted was a pity parade.

Or a double spread spouting bullshit about the tragic, angsty words pouring out of his soulful heart.

As much as he wanted to live without worrying about his finances, drawing the eye of a reporter was his biggest nightmare. The thought of sharing his pain with the entire world left him with a scowl, and a load of curse words that he couldn't spit out in the middle of a family café in the early hours of the afternoon.

He didn't want to relive everything he'd caged into ink.

He didn't want to remember.

He had poems for that. Sharing any more than that seemed too awful to think about.

He flicked through his notebook and sighed.

The words he had written, his own, original poems, stared back at him in angry red lines.

They replayed in his mind like a film reel; pausing only to highlight a word or two that he didn't care to remember; _fire, chaos, creeping into the places where locked memories spill out like-_

He turned the page quickly.

 _Very well. No original stuff today._

He chose a few of his favourite poems – ones that would suit the crowd looking for background words to their quiet coffees and escapism.

The usual feeling settled in then.

It was the sensation of being caved in; trapped. As though his own words had reopened the very wounds he'd wanted to write to heal.

It was a bitter, broken cycle; Killian's world. He wrote to forget, and wrote to remember.

He was forever torn between letting the emotions out to create something those he lost would be proud of, and wanting to bury the hurt forever and never write again.

Poetry had been his guide for such a long time.

It had taught him how to channel rage and pain and piece it together into words that held a new kind of power over him, and others.

It was his own 'fuck you' to a world that had taken everything from him.

Perhaps it was a punishment for himself too. By writing, he would forever relive the memories of losing her, and of losing him.

Milah, and Liam.

The two cracks in Killian's heart that refused to knit themselves back together.

Would he always be caught in-between mourning them and honouring their memories?

He read over the first poem, a short piece he had first fallen in love with during college.

 _I am not yours, not lost in you, Not lost, although I long to be Lost as a candle lit at noon, Lost as a snowflake in the sea. You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light. Oh plunge me deep in love—put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in a rushing wind._

His fingers twitched, yearning for another glass, and another liquid burn to forget the buried heat of pain.

But he forced himself to still his movements and focus. There was no way Robin would let him perform drunk. Not on the Tuesday performance anyway.

Friday nights were a different matter entirely.

When the clock reached time to perform, Killian made his way up onto the stage and managed a small smile. It was so forced that he couldn't even hold it more than a few seconds. He caught Robin frowning and tried again, eyes flicking over the small crowd. All the seats were full of friends and couples holding mugs of tea or coffee and watching him; waiting.

They wanted his words; his comfort.

If they wanted lies, he could do that. He could feed them poem after poem.

Perhaps one day, their comfort could become his.

 _One day._

* * *

"Well, kid, you all packed? You have everything? Toothbrush, phone charger-"

"Yes, mom. I told you like a million times already." Henry rolls his eyes, but he smiles; leaning up on his tiptoes to kiss her cheek. "I'm good to go. I promise."

"And Alex's dad will walk you back tomorrow?"

"Mom, I'm not even leaving the complex!" Henry groans. "I'm literally going to be staying three floors below you!"

Emma grimaces at that. "Yeah, good point." She smiles apologetically. "Too overprotective mom mode?"

"Way." Henry agrees with a grin.

Still, she worried.

Even if he was having a sleepover with a friend who lived in the same apartment block, he was still Henry. Her son.

And he would always be the child she had raised with the overwhelming worry that she was seconds from screwing up.

Even now, as she kisses Henry goodbye and tries for a happy smile, Emma was running through the dozens of ways this could go wrong. She shoves the images aside and walks her son out into the hallway to wait beside him for the elevator.

"Mom, please." Henry mutters. "Go inside. I promise I won't get mugged on the way down to Alex's, okay?"

She hadn't thought about that.

"Henry. Inside. You're not leaving now."

Before she could finish her command, the elevator had opened with a ping and Henry had leaped inside quickly.

He shoves a button and turns to wave at her. "See you tomorrow, mom!"

"Remember to-"

"Have my phone on at all times! I know. Stop worrying."

She smiles softly as the door closed. "Never."

After Henry left, Emma found herself alone inside their apartment.

Being on her own had never bothered Emma too much, but being alone did.

It made her all too aware of the future she had left behind.

Her days of thievery and squatting were long gone, but it still hadn't erased years of thinking everyone was seconds from leaving.

Her biological parents had seen to her abandonment issues.

Until Henry, they'd left a scar that she feared would never quite heal. Alongside a certain lover who had left her alone – one she didn't care to name even to herself – Emma had felt that her parents had made it their eternal gift to provide as much self-loathing as possible.

Emma had spent her youth corrupted and crippled by fear.

Growing up in foster home after foster home had built up her resistance to staying in the same place for more than a few years. Though most had been bearable, the odd one – filled with children desperate to lash out at the weakest – had left her feeling even more alone.

And then she had met him. A teenage, whirlwind love that ended the way most do; heartache.

And she had been even more alone than before.

But also…not.

The gift of life had been her punishment, and reward for all the shit she'd dealt with.

Realising she was pregnant as she sat inside her cell was one of the worst days of her life.

It was also one of the best.

She had given birth to a beautiful son, and hesitated.

A strong part of her urged herself to send him far away; away from her self-doubt and loneliness.

But Emma had paused. Looking down at the smiling baby in her arms, just for a moment, had filled her with a new kind of emotion. It was hope. And it spread across her skin like sunlight; warming and pushing away the fear of failure.

And so she had given Henry to two lovely foster parents, a couple named David and Mary-Margaret, on the condition that she was able to care for him afterwards. Social services agreed that if she was able to provide that she was stable – which meant a reliable career, wage and appropriate home – then Henry would be hers.

And so she had left the cell behind and never looked back on the hell that had been Emma's childhood. A childhood of splintered innocence and unanswered questions.

She forgot about him, and the desperate need to know why he had left her so easily.

She forgot about her biological parents, who clearly did not, and would not, ever care enough to track her down.

She focused on Henry.

He deserved a mother who could love him with as much energy as possible, and so she was determined to get her life back on track. For him, but also for herself. In the time she'd had to ponder her life in jail, Emma had realised with a shocking start that she had wasted so much of her life already; wondering about others, and waiting for a family that would never come back.

And then there had been David and Mary-Margaret.

In a strange, unexpected twist, they had welcomed Emma into their lives.

She had been hesitant at first, ready to fight them for custody of her son and prove them wrong. But they had been nothing but supportive; helping her with her first job interviews, paying for a smart work dress, and allowing her to secretly visit Henry whenever she'd liked.

They were soft and friendly and so easy to love. Emma found the child in her running towards them with open arms. She was still a teenager, but she was also a contradiction; young in age, yet mature in experience and pain.

And, slowly, they had become their own family.

David and Mary-Margaret could not have children of their own, she learned quickly, and they treated her with a kindness that made Emma think, _'so this is what it's like to feel loved'._

They had helped her with her son, and with herself too.

She learned how to pay bills and how to smile again, basking in the warmth of everything they offered her.

It was only when she was first hired by Regina, and that she sat in a large office with her own magazine segment, that Emma realised just how much they had done for her. How they had saved her life, and stood beside her as she built herself into a headstrong, young woman, and a caring mother.

But years later and Emma was still battling against the caged parts of her soul. The tiny locks that stopped her heart reaching out for another kind of love. But perhaps it wasn't worth it. She had a family of her own now. Why did she need anything more than that?

She felt a stab of guilt as she collapsed into the armchair, grabbing for the TV remote. Anything to distract herself from her thoughts. They often carried her down a path that led to nothing but regret.

After half an hour spent flicking through the channels, Emma had a sudden thought.

She glanced at the clock.

 _7:30pm._

Her fingers tapped against the chair.

 _Hm_ , she thought.

She grabbed for her phone, wincing against the sudden glare of light as her inbox popped up.

Emma opened up the chat between her and Elsa and began to type:

 _Theoretically speaking, what time did you say that ugly poet performs?_

She hit send before she could rethink it.

She waited.

Barely a minute had gone by when her phone buzzed.

 _8:30. Theoretically, of course._

 _Of course,_ Emma replies, resisting the urge to search for a middle finger emoji. Instead, she adds; _And what might one wear to this imaginary café at night?_

 _Depends. Does this person want to get laid or go for work purposes?_

 _Work._

 _Then a red jacket will do?_

 _Oh my god, Emma, hold up. Is this person…you?! I am SHOCKED. THIS IS SUCH A SURPRISE._

She spends the next minute furiously searching for a rude emoji. She settles on a scowling face and sends it back, pleased with herself.

After a moment, Elsa replies;

 _Grumpy Emma is my least favourite Emma. Elsa says sorry. She did not mean to earn the scowl face._

Emma smiled at that. She types back:

 _Forgiven. A jacket's okay then?_

 _Which one?_

 _Red's nice, right? It says 'don't mess with me'. I feel like I need that on a Friday night._

She heads towards her wardrobe and tugs on a simple, black leather dress and a pair of black tights. Nothing fancy was needed. She was just about to reach for her favourite red jacket when Elsa's reply buzzed through:

 _Relax, Emma. It's a poetry performance, not a strip club. Go, have fun! Prove me right and text me when you want to write a scoop on the guy ;)_

She rolls her eyes and types back:

 _We'll see about that, my friend. Have a good night._

 _You too ;) ;)_

"Really?" Emma mutters to herself. "Two winks?"

She hadn't missed Elsa's not-so-subtle hint.

The reminder that her love life had been a mess of one night stands and casual dates only adds to her nerves.

Perhaps she should stay in for the night.

Why was she even heading out anyway?

Was she actually curious about the guy, or just wanting to distract herself from thinking about the past?

She decides that 'both' is a decent, honest answer.

Throwing on a pair of low heels – who knew when you needed to make a quick dash for it? – Emma makes sure to lock the windows and doors, pockets her phone, and stuffs a notepad and pen into her bag.

 _Just in case pretty poet is actually worth my time._

Heading out onto the taxi ramp outside, Emma shivers in the cool evening air and waits for the approaching cab.

Something in the air was tingling; a strange energy in the air that danced around her. It whispers to her in an excited song, urging her to pay attention.

 _Anticipation_ , she realised then, smiling at the cab driver and giving him the address of the café.

As the car swept away, Emma closes her eyes.

Perhaps tonight would prove worth taking a chance.

* * *

 _The Jolly Roger_ is definitely not what she expects.

Nor are the people waiting for the performance.

From the first moment she steps in, Emma is quite sure that the place was worth its recommendation.

As for the poet himself was yet to be seen.

Her mind went into reporter-mode.

Though it had been a while since she'd trained herself to remember little details and entire conversations, Emma refreshed her skillset and looked around.

It was fairly crowded.

She was surprised, and a little ashamed, at seeing so many varieties of styles and ages in the room.

She'd assumed the room would be filled with depressed goths and post-grad English students who had nothing better to do with their time than sit in a dark room listening to broken-hearted poetry.

But there were young couples, and older groups of friends, and lone strangers too; all sipping drinks from the unusual glassware. Some held small, spyglass-shaped glasses and some gulped from teacups in all colours; their outsides decorated with pirate ship themes – compasses, sails, wheels, anchors.

She ducked her head. Feeling a little guilty, she headed to the bar.

 _No better way to crush nerves than alcohol_ , she thought.

She took in the rest of the room as she waited for the bartender's attention.

The room was low lit and decorated with many hanging fairy lights, their glow creating a gentle but warm light over the large space.

And it was large. A lot larger than she'd pictured.

There were many small tables, and long, ship-style, old-fashioned banquet tables too.

Across one long wall hung countless sheep wheels; some wooden, some painted blacks and dark blues, and the occasional modern style in-between. The splashes of colour were brightened under the lights. There were individual tables which had barrels instead of stools. Pretty chequered cloths covered them comfortably.

It was charming, and also a writer's dream, Emma realised then.

There was something about the place that created a doorway to a private little world.

It was a place to both be alone, and feel surrounded. It was magical in a sense that it felt achingly familiar; a place where everyone went to dream.

She would have to begrudgingly admit this to Elsa at work on Monday.

She'd also never seen a café slash bar with an enormous chalk wall before.

It stretched across the wall opposite to the wheels; filled with slanted writing, neat writing, and I'm-too-drunk-to-remember-this writing. A small holder for the coloured chalk was fitted neatly into the middle, and although it was only 8 o'clock, the wall was half filled already. She was about to step closer to it, and read some of the contributions – were they poems? Cell phone numbers? Menus? – when the bartender called for her.

"Uh, a glass of red please."

The bartender waited a moment, and then smiled. "Which kind?" He asked in amusement.

"Oh, right. Yeah. You have Pinot noir?"

The man nodded, his smile teasing but not unkindly. "Coming right up, ma'am."

She smiled at that, her embarrassment fading fast.

It had been a while since she'd ordered at a bar, but the guy was friendly and she didn't mind too much after that.

After she paid, Emma held her glass and navigated through the small crowd. It was busy, but not hectic like a few of the concerts she'd been to with Elsa. Or on work-related purposes with Ruby, who was in charge of the music section at the office.

There was a quiet buzz in the air that she just wanted to sit back, relax and soak up. So she did. Finding a spare single table towards the middle of the room, she hides amongst others and finds a tiny corner of freedom that was hers and only hers.

On the table rests a tiny compass made of brass. She picks it up and gingerly turns it over in her hand, running her fingertip gently over the engraved words;

 _Ad astra._

The years of Latin classes she'd struggled through during various high schools came hurtling back to her.

Still, she kept trying to work out the meaning.

'Astra' implied astral; perhaps 'stars' or 'planet' or 'sky'.

But Emma was clueless, glaring at the words as if they might translate themselves if she stared hard enough.

"It's ' _to the stars'_." A voice next to her chirped happily.

She turned to the table beside her and was met with a woman around her own age, with reddish-orange hair and a wide smile on her face.

She grinned at Emma, leaning forwards to tap the compass. "What it means." She explained. "All the compasses have different things written on them. If you come often enough, you'll soon work them all out like me!"

There was something familiar about the other woman. Emma nodded her thanks, and took a sip of wine. She tried to place the girl's face; a sweet, round face with gentle eyes and a matching smile. And then it clicked.

"Hey," Emma began. She waited for the other woman to turn back to her. "You're Anna, right?"

"Yes! Have we met before? I have a goldfish memory, as my sister puts it. Elsa always jokes that she got the brains but we both got the braids." Anna laughs then, and Emma finally sees the resemblance between the two sisters. They both have smiles that reach their eyes and an approachable manner that is somewhere between kind and playful.

"No, sorry, I know your sister." Emma shook her hand and shuffled her chair a little closer. It was growing louder now and she had to raise her voice. "Elsa and I work together, and she told me to come check this place out. I believe you're the one behind it?"

Anna looked sheepish. "Yeah. I never shut up about this place." Her smile was so infectious that Emma felt her own lips tug into a smile.

"Well, thanks then." Emma called out. "It'll definitely make a unique piece to write on."

Anna's eyes widened in delight. "You want to write about this place?" She clapped her hands together happily.

 _Damn it._

"Uh, no. Well, I haven't decided yet." Emma sighed, looking around. "Depends on how the performance is."

She hadn't meant to say anything, but the words had slipped out.

True enough, the place would make a wonderful article on modern culture and music and poetry. But she felt like knowing the people was required before she could create a worthwhile piece. She needed to know about the history; why people liked it, why the poets created a following, and _what do people actually write on that damn blackboard?_

A round of applause startled her from her thoughts.

She turned to see that everyone had taken their seats, the last few people hovering by the bar or walking towards the back. Everyone gazed towards the stage – a raised platform with a microphone, stand and a stool.

A low spotlight created a tension that thickened around the room like theatre smoke. Everyone was waiting for the curtain to lift and the show to begin, including Emma.

Anna looked at her excitedly and quietly said, "You'll love it, I promise!"

Emma managed to look hopeful before settling back into her spot. The string of lights above swayed slowly like fireflies.

She quickly bent down and took out her small notepad and pen, ready to make notes or jot down any ideas.

It was the first rule of journalism _: random inspiration strikes at any time. Be ready for it._

Emma had lost count of the times she'd woken at three am to scribble down an article idea.

It was always the best part of being a writer; when those small ideas and thoughts build into something bigger; something worth sharing and letting your guard down for. The feedback and interactions from their readers made it even more special. Their passion and enthusiasm for the very things she too loved was so rewarding.

It was one thing to type up an article and publish it. It was another to realise that people enjoyed it, and felt inspired to write themselves.

As she scrambled around for the pen she could've sworn she put in, Emma felt the crowd fall to a hushed but comfortable silence.

She quickly sat up, and her breath caught.

What had she joked before?

That the guy was 'ugly'?

She almost snorted at the irony as the guy who walked onstage was anything but.

The first thing she noticed was his eyes.

Even from a few feet away, Emma felt taken aback by their sadness. It wasn't a sadness that overwhelmed her, but one she felt drawn towards. One she understood. It was a sadness that often went unnoticed in the world; when a person had suffered but held it inside like an old friend. It was too much a part of him.

From the intense stare of bright blue eyes, to the tips of his worn combat boots, the guy was nothing like what'd she'd expected. He was a sort of cross between an ex rock-star and the kind of person you'd leave in the morning because your legs couldn't work for hours afterwards.

He was gorgeous.

Dark, shaggy hair framed his handsome face, and his jawline was so sharp she almost wanted to throw a coin at it, just to see if it bounced back indented.

He didn't look at the crowd too much either, which Emma liked. He was focused on the book in his hands, a notebook, as he placed the stool in front of the microphone and began.

"I'm Killian Jones, and welcome to _The Jolly Roger_ 's poetry hour."

Polite clapping gave her a moment to hide how pleasing his voice was to her ears. It was low and deep; speaking the words slowly and relaxed. Emma cleared her throat and forced herself to clap, ignoring the way her fingers kept fidgeting with the pen lid afterwards.

"I'd like to begin with one of my favourites. It's a bloody beautiful piece by E. E. Cummings. Ladies and gentlemen, this _is I Carry Your Heart with Me_. Enjoy."

As he turned the page, his jaw clenched, as if in memory, and Emma felt herself lean forwards; searching and scanning his face for a question she didn't even remember asking.

 _Killian_ , she reminded herself _. His name is Killian._

She bit her pen lid, not liking how intimate even the thought of his name felt. She wondered how it would sound against her lips and then shoved that thought aside. Quickly.

And then he began the poem.

 _"I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)_

 _I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)_ "

Killian briefly scanned the front row, and she bowed her head, making sure he wouldn't see her.

 _Why would he?_ She asked herself quickly, ignoring the nervous energy sparking inside of her.

He continued, and she relaxed.

 _"I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)_

 _I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)_

 _And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you._

 _Here is the deepest secret nobody knows;_

 _(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows_ _higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)_

 _And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart;_

 _I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)"_

Emma reminded herself about halfway through that she hadn't taken any notes.

The poetry – and the poet, if she was honest – had enraptured her entirely.

She had been right in her honesty that she knew nothing about poetry.

Nothing of academic value anyway.

But, that night, as Emma listened to Killian's voice tell story after story, and poem after poem, she felt like she'd been taken on so many different adventures.

Without leaving her seat, he had broken her heart, mended it, and teased it with his, and other poets' words.

Her favourite part had been listening to his own words. His own poems. They were poems of loss, but also tender remembrance.

" _My love, you may leave my arms; but never my heart._

 _Your touch graces my dreams, always._

 _Never leave, never leave._

 _My love, you may travel far and wide; but never stray from my mind._

 _Your eyes live behind my close ones, forever._

 _Never fade, never fade."_

There was such a simplicity to his own poems that filled Emma's eyes with tears.

Understanding emotion was not something that came easy to Emma.

It never had done.

Realising she had internalised a lot growing up had helped her to come to terms with this.

With the help of her family, her chosen family – Mary-Margaret, David, Henry and her friends – Emma had learned that simply trying was sometimes the best thing she could do. Some days it was frustrating for her. She wanted nothing more than to love openly, but it was too frightening; the thought of giving someone so much power over her heart, and her life, was daunting.

Henry, on the other hand, was so easy to love, and deserved everything she could offer.

If she moved on from this world having only loved her son, Emma knew there would be no regrets on her part.

She had also learnt that there was strength in love, not blood.

Love that came from free will was stronger than any imaginary family she'd imagined in her youth.

All these thoughts rushed into her mind as she listened to Killian.

He awoke the dormant parts that she kept hidden. The parts she was too afraid to face.

As Killian finished his final poem – one of his own; a short, gently-spoken piece about love – his expression softened.

His eyes found hers in the crowd before Emma had time to duck.

His last words haunted her long after the night finished;

" _And alas I asked, 'Why do we love so briefly, yet burn so brightly for the years afterwards?'. Do we orbit our own hearts until we find a satellite soul who calls out to us? How long must we wait? How many years do we endure?"_

Killian's bright eyes stared so clearly at her that Emma wanted to flip him off, just to break his focus. His gaze was too direct; too intimate. It made her uncomfortable; not because it was unwanted, but that his words had ripped across her skin like sunlight.

His final sentence made her shiver;

 _Love, like the sky, will always be too great to understand."_

And then he closed his book, still not glancing away, and smiled. His full lips, under the spotlight, looked like they were dipped in starlight.

There was poetry in his symmetry, but also in the unruly, dark hair, and the stubble that made her wonder if it would burn against the soft skin of her thighs-

 _Enough._ She warned herself.

The last time she had fallen for a pretty boy and pretty words, she had ended up pregnant and alone in a cold cell.

Emma furiously pictured the many nights she had held herself and cried through the whole night. She forced herself to picture the goosebumps of fear and loneliness; the burning tears, and the trembling of her lip.

Stubbornness won, and she looked away first; dismissing the pounding of her heart as the memories she'd tried to relive. Anything to remind herself that those sort of thoughts only led down one path.

The blank pages of her notebook glared up at her.

 _Great,_ she thought. _The only job you had…_

When the lights returned to normal, and Killian had left the stage – accompanied by a generous round of applause and cheers – Emma felt Anna tap her on the arm.

"So?" The other girl was smiling happily, oblivious to Emma's conflicted self. "He was amazing, right?"

Emma swallowed back the tightness in her throat and nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak normally. Not yet. Killian's words still danced around her thoughts, both taunting and soothing her.

"Can I buy you another drink?" Anna asked kindly.

"No!" Emma said quickly, already standing. She smiled, or at least tried to, as she patted her bag. "Let me buy you one." She added.

She needed the distraction, and the time to come up with her next move.

Was she actually considering writing a piece on the place, or Killian?

If so, why? And what sort of angle was she going to take with it?

All these thoughts crossed her mind, and she welcomed them; glad for the logical side of her brain that was dismissing the stranger, emotional ones.

The bar was a little busier now, so she waited at the corner.

Her gaze caught the blackboard again, which was even more filled up than before.

Emma worked out that she had a few minutes until either bartender was free, so she headed over to the blackboard.

Up closer, it was clear that there was a pattern.

Some people had written quotes; songs, poetry, general 'hello!'s and 'call me!' jokes. Emma rolled her eyes at the phallic drawing in the corner. But it was the childish exception. The rest of the blackboard was an artwork in itself; a mix of personalities and emotions coming together to make a mood board of today.

Before she realised what she was doing, Emma had taken a small piece of purple chalk.

Her hand hovered in a blank space, unsure of what to write. She chewed her lip.

She was deep in concentration when a voice spoke from her right.

"You look like a woman who needs a little help, love."

Emma jumped, almost dropping the chalk as the voice broke through her daze.

She turned, and to her right stood Killian Jones, poet and wearer of a shit-eating grin.

She wanted to slap it off his face.

And kiss him until he could no longer torture her with words like before.

"I'm doing just fine, thank you." She said, coolly, unable to stop herself from raking her eyes over his new outfit.

He had changed from a formal shirt and waistcoat to a simple, black tee that hugged his forearms appealingly, and a pair of leather pants that clung to his long legs.

 _Pretty sure his pants are tighter than my dress._

She wanted to tug her jacket tighter, but when Killian ran his eyes up her dress, she found herself standing a little straighter. Her chin tilted up. If he wanted to admire her, why was that a bad thing? Had she not just been doing the same thing in return? They were both adults. Surely they could admire each other and share a little conversation on a Friday night? It didn't need to lead anywhere.

 _Lead anywhere? Whoa there_.

She silenced that thought quickly, and abruptly held out the piece of chalk to him. "Uh, did you want to write something?" She mumbled.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at her. His lips were still pulled into a grin that knew exactly what it was doing to her.

"I'll pass. Give someone else a chance."

Now it was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?" She scoffed.

Killian shrugged, eyes tearing away from hers long enough to glance over the blackboard. His eyes followed a few of the poetry quotes. He glanced her way again, and she was struck by the rawness that had faded a little.

Onstage, he had poured his heart into his words.

Offstage, though he seemed confident and playful, there was a facade that Emma understood a little too well.

"So what's this for?" She asked, breaking the silence.

He turned back to her. "It's a wish board. Robin likes to call it the dreamcatcher."

Emma winced. A memory of a hotel room and a stolen dreamcatcher almost brought tears to her eyes.

She fought them back and refocused on Killian. "So, people write what they want on here? Expecting it to come true?" She rolled her eyes. "That's dumb."

"There's nothing you want in life, love?" Killian asked. He chuckled once, and then his expression grew serious.

He took a step towards her, and she felt his breath hot on her cheeks. "There's nothing you're so eager for that you'd share it with strangers, just in the hope that one might know someone, who knows someone, who can fulfil it?"

She ignored how close he was, lifting her chin higher and keeping her expression as neutral as possible. "I don't need anyone else to fight my battles." She said firmly. "Or give me my dreams. I go out, and I get them myself."

His expression shifted for a moment, and an emotion she couldn't read flickered across his face.

But then it was gone, and Killian smirked.

It was a cocky smirk, and it almost distracted her from the brutal look of honesty in his eyes as he replied, "Ah, so you're a survivor. Like myself."

But Emma picked up on the hidden messages.

A survivor meant someone who had suffered and lost. As she gazed across at the intriguing poet, Emma almost invited him to have a drink with her. Almost.

Instead, she asked him one simple question.

"Why did you become a poet?"

Killian's eyes widened a little. Clearly he had expected her to retort, or perhaps even flirt. He hadn't expected an earnest question. In all fairness, neither had Emma. She had simply wanted to know, and asked.

It disappointed her that he might walk away then. Wasn't it what she would do?

After a moment, Killian scratched the back of his neck. When he spoke, his voice was quieter; gentler. "Don't all broken hearts turn to words for help?"

The honesty in his reply shook her to the core. Here was someone unafraid to admit their flaws and weaknesses. It had already been evident to her as she watched Killian perform.

And it frightened the everlasting hell out of her.

So Emma did was Emma did best – what she relied on to survive – and took the first step away.

She smiled at Killian. "Have a good night."

His look of disappointment was so clear that Emma had to look away. He hesitated, and then closed his mouth again; slightly turning away from her, but not fully.

He then plastered a grin onto his face. "Nice meeting you, Ms…?"

"Swan." She quickly said. "Emma Swan."

"Beautiful name for a beautiful lass."

She would not blush.

She would _not_ blush-

"Uh, thanks." Emma muttered, tapping her fingers against her thigh. "See you around."

Just as she turned to head back to her table, she heard Killian let out a little sigh and say, "I hope so, Swan."

She headed to retrieve her bag, and headed out of the door before she could reconsider her decision to leave.

* * *

Killian watched the mysterious woman leave _The Jolly Roger._

He had caught her eye during the middle of his set and had forced himself to stop stealing glances at her ever since.

She was a stunner; long, tumbling blonde locks and eyes that severed his armour like a sword.

Yes, Killian decided; watching her hurry out of the door with a determined walk. He would most definitely like to see her again.

Realising he still held the piece of blue chalk in his hand, Killian smiled a secret grin and found a free spot on the blackboard.

On it, he wrote:

 _Come back soon, Swan._


End file.
